He returned to Gruenewald and said to himself that the great Crucifixion was the masterpiece of an art driven out of bounds.

One need not go far in search of the extra-terrestrial as to fall into perfervid Catholicism.

Perhaps spiritualism would give one all one required to formulate a supernaturalistic method.
He rose and went into his tiny workroom.

His pile of manuscript notes about the Marshal de Rais, surnamed Bluebeard, looked at him derisively from the table where they were piled.
"All the same," he said, "it's good to be here, in out of the world and above the limits of time.

To live in another age, never read a newspaper, not even know that the theatres exist--ah, what a dream! To dwell with Bluebeard and forget the grocer on the corner and all the other petty little criminals of an age perfectly typified by the cafe waiter who ravishes the boss's daughter--the goose who lays the golden egg, as he calls her--so that she will have to marry him!" Bed was a good place, he added, smiling, for he saw his cat, a creature with a perfect time sense, regarding him uneasily as if to remind him of their common convenience and to reproach him for not having prepared the couch.